II
“Dr. Haydock called,” said Miss Knight reproachfully. “I told him you’d gone to tea with Mrs. Bantry. He said he’d call in again tomorrow.”
She helped Miss Marple off with her wraps.
“And now, I expect, we’re tired out,” she said accusingly.
“You may be,” said Miss Marple. “I am not.”
“You come and sit cosy by the fire,” said Miss Knight, as usual paying no attention. (“You don’t need to take much notice of what the old dears say. I just humour them.”) “And how would we fancy a nice cup of Ovaltine? Or Horlicks for a change?”
Miss Marple thanked her and said she would like a small glass of dry sherry. Miss Knight looked disapproving.
“I don’t know what the doctor would say to that, I’m sure,” she said, when she returned with the glass.
“We will make a point of asking him tomorrow morning,” said Miss Marple.
On the following morning Miss Knight met Dr. Haydock in the hall, and did some agitated whispering.
The elderly doctor came into the room rubbing his hands, for it was a chilly morning.
“Here’s our doctor to see us,” said Miss Knight gaily. “Can I take your gloves, Doctor?”
“They’ll be all right here,” said Haydock, casting them carelessly on a table. “Quite a nippy morning.”
“A little glass of sherry perhaps?” suggested Miss Marple.
“I heard you were taking to drink. Well, you should never drink alone.”
The decanter and the glasses were already on a small table by Miss Marple. Miss Knight left the room.
Dr. Haydock was a very old friend. He had semiretired, but came to attend certain of his old patients.
“I hear you’ve been falling about,” he said as he finished his glass. “It won’t do, you know, not at your age. I’m warning you. And I hear you didn’t want to send for Sandford.”
Sandford was Haydock’s partner.
“That Miss Knight of yours sent for him anyway—and she was quite right.”
“I was only bruised and shaken a little. Dr. Sandford said so. I could have waited quite well until you were back.”
“Now look here, my dear. I can’t go on forever. And Sandford, let me tell you, has better qualifications than I have. He’s a first class man.”
“The young doctors are all the same,” said Miss Marple. “They take your blood pressure, and whatever’s the matter with you, you get some kind of mass produced variety of new pills. Pink ones, yellow ones, brown ones. Medicine nowadays is just like a supermarket—all packaged up.”
“Serve you right if I prescribed leeches, and black draught, and rubbed your chest with camphorated oil.”
“I do that myself when I’ve got a cough,” said Miss Marple with spirit, “and very comforting it is.”
“We don’t like getting old, that’s what it is,” said Haydock gently. “I hate it.”
“You’re quite a young man compared to me,” said Miss Marple. “And I don’t really mind getting old—not that in itself. It’s the lesser indignities.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“Never being alone! The difficulty of geting out for a few minutes by oneself. And even my knitting—such a comfort that has always been, and I really am a good knitter. Now I drop stitches all the time—and quite often I don’t even know I’ve dropped them.”
Haydock looked at her thoughtfully.
Then his eyes twinkled.
“There’s always the opposite.”
“Now what do you mean by that?”
“If you can’t knit, what about unravelling for a change? Penelope did.”
“I’m hardly in her position.”
“But unravelling’s rather in your line, isn’t it?”
He rose to his feet.
“I must be getting along. What I’d prescribe for you is a nice juicy murder.”
“That’s an outrageous thing to say!”
“Isn’t it? However, you can always make do with the depth the parsley sank into the butter on a summer’s day. I always wondered about that. Good old Holmes. A period piece, nowadays, I suppose. But he’ll never be forgotten.”
Miss Knight bustled in after the doctor had gone.
“There,” she said, “we look much more cheerful. Did the doctor recommend a tonic?”
“He recommended me to take an interest in murder.”
“A nice detective story?”
“No,” said Miss Marple. “Real life.”
“Goodness,” exclaimed Miss Knight. “But there’s not likely to be a murder in this quiet spot.”
“Murders,” said Miss Marple, “can happen anywhere. And do.”
“At the Development, perhaps?” mused Miss Knight. “A lot of those Teddy-looking boys carry knives.”
But the murder, when it came, was not at the Development.
Four
Mrs. Bantry stepped back a foot or two, surveyed herself in the glass, made a slight adjustment to her hat (she was not used to wearing hats), drew on a pair of good quality leather gloves and left the lodge, closing the door carefully behind her. She had the most pleasurable anticipations of what lay in front of her. Some three weeks had passed since her talk with Miss Marple. Marina Gregg and her husband had arrived at Gossington Hall and were now more or less installed there.
There was to be a meeting there this afternoon of the main persons involved in the arrangements for the fête in aid of the St. John Ambulance. Mrs. Bantry was not among those on the committee, but she had received a note from Marina Gregg asking her to come and have tea beforehand. It had recalled their meeting in California and had been signed, “Cordially, Marina Gregg.” It had been handwritten, not typewritten. There is no denying that Mrs. Bantry was both pleased and flattered. After all, a celebrated film star is a celebrated film star and elderly ladies, though they may be of local importance, are aware of their complete unimportance in the world of celebrities. So Mrs. Bantry had the pleased feeling of a child for whom a special treat had been arranged.
As she walked up the drive Mrs. Bantry’s keen eyes went from side to side registering her impressions. The place had been smartened up since the days when it had passed from hand to hand. “No expense spared,” said Mrs. Bantry to herself, nodding in satisfaction. The drive afforded no view of the flower garden and for that Mrs. Bantry was just as pleased. The flower garden and its special herbaceous border had been her own particular delight in the far-off days when she had lived at Gossington Hall. She permitted regretful and nostalgic memories of her irises. The best iris garden of any in the country, she told herself with a fierce pride.
Faced by a new front door in a blaze of new paint she pressed the bell. The door was opened with gratifying promptness by what was undeniably an Italian butler. She was ushered by him straight to the room which had been Colonel Bantry’s library. This, as she had already heard, had been thrown into one with the study. The result was impressive. The walls were panelled, the floor was parquet. At one end was a grand piano and halfway along the wall was a superb record player. At the other end of the room was a small island, as it were, which comprised Persian rugs, a tea table and some chairs. By the tea table sat Marina Gregg, and leaning against the mantelpiece was what Mrs. Bantry at first thought to be the ugliest man she had ever seen.
Just a few moments previously when Mrs. Bantry’s hand had been advanced to press the bell, Marina Gregg had been saying in a soft, enthusiastic voice, to her husband:
“This place is right for me, Jinks, just right. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Quiet. English quiet and the English countryside. I can see myself living here, living here all my life if need be. And we’ll adopt the English way of life. We’ll have afternoon tea every afternoon with China tea and my lovely Georgian tea service. And we’ll look out of the window on those lawns and that English herbaceous border. I’ve come home at last, that’s what I feel. I feel that I can settle down here, that I can be quiet an
d happy. It’s going to be home, this place. That’s what I feel. Home.”
And Jason Rudd (known to his wife as Jinks) had smiled at her. It was an acquiescent smile, indulgent, but it held its reserve because, after all, he had heard it very often before. Perhaps this time it would be true. Perhaps this was the place that Marina Gregg might feel at home. But he knew her early enthusiasms so well. She was always so sure that at last she had found exactly what she wanted. He said in his deep voice:
“That’s grand, honey. That’s just grand. I’m glad you like it.”
“Like it? I adore it. Don’t you adore it too?”
“Sure,” said Jason Rudd. “Sure.”
It wasn’t too bad, he reflected to himself. Good, solidly built, rather ugly Victorian. It had, he admitted, a feeling of solidity and security. Now that the worst of its fantastic inconveniences had been ironed out, it would be quite reasonably comfortable to live in. Not a bad place to come back to from time to time. With luck, he thought, Marina wouldn’t start taking a dislike to it for perhaps two years to two years and a half. It all depended.
Marina said, sighing softly:
“It’s so wonderful to feel well again. Well and strong. Able to cope with things.”
And he said again: “Sure, honey, sure.”
And it was at that moment that the door opened and the Italian butler had ushered in Mrs. Bantry.
Marina Gregg’s welcome was all that was charming. She came forward, hands outstretched, saying how delightful it was to meet Mrs. Bantry again. And what a coincidence that they should have met that time in San Fransisco and that two years later she and Jinks should actually buy the house that had once belonged to Mrs. Bantry. And she did hope, she really did hope that Mrs. Bantry wouldn’t mind terribly the way they’d pulled the house about and done things to it and she hoped she wouldn’t feel that they were terrible intruders living here.
“Your coming to live here is one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to this place,” said Mrs. Bantry cheerfully and she looked towards the mantelpiece. Whereupon, almost as an afterthought, Marina Gregg said:
“You don’t know my husband, do you? Jason, this is Mrs. Bantry.”
Mrs. Bantry looked at Jason Rudd with some interest. Her first impression that this was one of the ugliest men she had ever seen became qualified. He had interesting eyes. They were, she thought, more deeply sunk in his head than any eyes she had seen. Deep quiet pools, said Mrs. Bantry to herself, and felt like a romantic lady novelist. The rest of his face was distinctly craggy, almost ludicrously out of proportion. His nose jutted upwards and a little red paint would have transformed it into the nose of a clown very easily. He had, too, a clown’s big sad mouth. Whether he was at this moment in a furious temper or whether he always looked as though he were in a furious temper she did not quite know. His voice when he spoke was unexpectedly pleasant. Deep and slow.
“A husband,” he said, “is always an afterthought. But let me say with my wife that we’re very glad to welcome you here. I hope you don’t feel that it ought to be the other way about.”
“You must get it out of your head,” said Mrs. Bantry, “that I’ve been driven forth from my old home. It never was my old home. I’ve been congratulating myself ever since I sold it. It was a most inconvenient house to run. I liked the garden but the house became more and more of a worry. I’ve had a perfectly splendid time ever since travelling abroad and going and seeing my married daughters and my grandchildren and my friends in all different parts of the world.”
“Daughters,” said Marina Gregg, “you have daughters and sons?”
“Two sons and two daughters,” said Mrs. Bantry, “and pretty widely spaced. One in Kenya, one in South Africa. One near Texas and the other, thank goodness, in London.”
“Four,” said Marina Gregg. “Four—and grandchildren?”
“Nine up-to-date,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It’s great fun being a grandmother. You don’t have any of the worry of parental responsibility. You can spoil them in the most unbridled way—”
Jason Rudd interrupted her. “I’m afraid the sun catches your eyes,” he said, and went to a window to adjust the blind. “You must tell us all about this delightful village,” he said as he came back.
He handed her a cup of tea.
“Will you have a hot scone or a sandwich, or this cake? We have an Italian cook and she makes quite good pastry and cakes. You see we have quite taken to your English afternoon tea.”
“Delicious tea too,” said Mrs. Bantry, sipping the fragrant beverage.
Marina Gregg smiled and looked pleased. The sudden nervous movement of her fingers which Jason Rudd’s eyes had noticed a minute or two previously, was stilled again. Mrs. Bantry looked at her hostess with great admiration. Marina Gregg’s heyday had been before the rise to supreme importance of vital statistics. She could not have been described as Sex Incarnate, or “The Bust” or “The Torso.” She had been long and slim and willowy. The bones of her face and head had had some of the beauty associated with those of Garbo. She had brought personality to her pictures rather than mere sex. The sudden turn of her head, the opening of the deep lovely eyes, the faint quiver of her mouth, all these were what brought to one suddenly that feeling of breathtaking loveliness that comes not from regularity of feature but from sudden magic of the flesh that catches the onlooker unawares. She still had this quality though it was not now so easily apparent. Like many film and stage actresses she had what seemed to be a habit of turning off personality at will. She could retire into herself, be quiet, gentle, aloof, disappointing to an eager fan. And then suddenly the turn of the head, the movement of the hands, the sudden smile and the magic was there.
One of her greatest pictures had been Mary, Queen of Scots, and it was of her performance in that picture that Mrs. Bantry was reminded now as she watched her. Mrs. Bantry’s eye switched to the husband. He too was watching Marina. Off guard for a moment, his face expressed clearly his feelings. “Good Lord,” said Mrs. Bantry to herself, “the man adores her.”
She didn’t know why she should feel so surprised. Perhaps because film stars and their love affairs and their devotion were so written up in the Press that one never expected to see the real thing with one’s own eyes. On an impulse she said:
“I do hope you’ll enjoy it here and that you’ll be able to stay here some time. Do you expect to have the house for long?”
Marina opened wide surprised eyes as she turned her head. “I want to stay here always,” she said. “Oh, I don’t mean that I shan’t have to go away a lot. I shall, of course. There’s a possibility of making a film in North Africa next year although nothing’s settled yet. No, but this will be my home. I shall come back here. I shall always be able to come back here.” She sighed. “That’s what’s so wonderful. To have found a home at last.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Bantry, but at the same time she thought to herself, “All the same I don’t believe for a moment that it will be like that. I don’t believe you’re the kind that can ever settle down.”
Again she shot a quick surreptitious glance at Jason Rudd. He was not scowling now. Instead he was smiling, a sudden very sweet and unexpected smile, but it was a sad smile. “He knows it too,” thought Mrs. Bantry.
The door opened and a woman came in. “Bartletts want you on the telephone, Jason,” she said.
“Tell them to call back.”
“They said it was urgent.”
He sighed and rose. “Let me introduce you to Mrs. Bantry,” he said. “Ella Zielinsky, my secretary.”
“Have a cup of tea, Ella,” said Marina as Ella Zielinsky acknowledged the introduction with a smiling “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’ll have a sandwich,” said Ella. “I don’t go for China tea.”
Ella Zielinsky was at a guess thirty-five. She wore a well cut suit, a ruffled blouse and appeared to breathe self-confidence. She had short-cut black hair and a wide forehead.
“You used to
live here, so they tell me,” she said to Mrs. Bantry.
“It’s a good many years ago now,” said Mrs. Bantry. “After my husband’s death I sold it and it’s passed through several hands since then.”
“Mrs. Bantry really says she doesn’t hate the things we’ve done to it,” said Marina.
“I should be frightfully disappointed if you hadn’t,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I came up here all agog. I can tell you the most splendid rumours have been going around the village.”
“Never knew how difficult it was to get hold of plumbers in this country,” said Miss Zielinsky, champing a sandwich in a businesslike way. “Not that that’s been really my job,” she went on.
“Everything is your job,” said Marina, “and you know it is, Ella. The domestic staff and the plumbing and arguing with the builders.”
“They don’t seem ever to have heard of a picture window in this country.”
Ella looked towards the window. “It’s a nice view, I must admit.”
“A lovely old-fashioned rural English scene,” said Marina. “This house has got atmosphere.”
“It wouldn’t look so rural if it wasn’t for the trees,” said Ella Zielinsky. “That housing estate down there grows while you look at it.”
“That’s new since my time,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“You mean there was nothing but the village when you lived here?”
Mrs. Bantry nodded.
“It must have been hard to do your shopping.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I think it was frightfully easy.”
“I understand having a flower garden,” said Ella Zielinsky, “but you folk over here seem to grow all your vegetables as well. Wouldn’t it be much easier to buy them—there’s a supermarket?”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 143